


Per Nomine Alio

by Actual_Pixie



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Mentions of Slavery, Post-Dragon Age II, Pre-Dragon Age: Inquisition, it may go into Inquisition, let's see where this takes us
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 19:50:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6580081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Actual_Pixie/pseuds/Actual_Pixie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the run from Tevinter, Dorian is attacked by slavers in the Free Marches and rescued by Fenris, who, not recognizing him as an Altus, takes him in and nurses him back to health.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Per Nomine Alio

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't resist this idea. :D Damn fenrian for taking over my heart....

**Per Nomine Alio**

**By Any Other Name**

 

“Get him in the cage.”

 

“I’m tryin’.”

 

A muttered curse. “He’s defenseless and has a broken leg, imbecile, how difficult can it be?”

 

Dorian exhaled slowly, trying to muster even an ounce of mana that might remain in him. He was exhausted, not just from the fight – which had been over practically the moment it started, so caught off guard was he – but from several months without a proper meal or rest. Growing up in the heart of Tevinter luxury had done nothing to boost his survival instincts; it was a wonder he’d made it this long, really.

 

Still. He’d come too far to be taken down by backwater Free Marcher bandits. He snapped his middle finger and thumb together, lips moving soundlessly to form a spell. If he could distract them at the very least, maybe there was a chance he could crawl away. Get to the nearby stream... Maybe there was a town close by, someone who could help him, anything.

 

He struck his fingers together again, creating a tiny spark. The bandits didn’t notice. Once more and the spark became a flame that he depleted the remainder of his mana directing at his assailants.

 

Several shrieks rang out, the scent of singed hair and flesh reaching Dorian from where he had dragged himself to rest against the trunk of a dying tree.

 

“Bloody void – you said ‘e was defenseless!”

 

Dorian focused on dragging himself, his left leg a useless, twisted burden he could barely put weight on. A misplaced step caught his foot on a thick root, and he fell heavily, a strangled shout escaping him as his full weight landed on his injured leg. He heard a sickening _snap_ and his stomach lurched.

 

More curses and shouting, and then he was grabbed roughly by the underarms and hauled upwards.

 

“Tricky bastard,” said the voice Dorian had come to recognize as the one in charge. “Put up a fight, I’ll give you that. I got people who’ll pay extra to break the fighters.” He punctuated the words with a kick to Dorian’s shin. The mage cried out, spots of black dotting his vision as a sensation like a thousand lives stabbed through his leg.

Dorian opened his mouth. Words had always been his best weapon – maybe there was a way he could talk himself out of this. Strike a bargain. If his father hadn’t completely disowned him he was still someone of importance in the Imperium; surely he could offer the bandits a bribe.

 

Before he could say anything, however, the cold press of metal touched his throat. Smooth, not a blade, and tight – then tighter, pressing into his windpipe and making each breath a struggle.

 

The bandit leaned down, a flash of a gold filling catching Dorian’s attention as the man grinned. “Try to fight outta that.”

 

\- - -

 

Dorian’s eyes snapped open, a wordless shout upon his lips as consciousness thrust itself upon him. As the remnants of a nightmare receded to the dark corners of his mind, hiding away to haunt him on another evening, a thatched rood faded into sight, as well as other bits and pieces making up the small room that housed him.

 

He lay upon a straw pallet cushioned with a heavy woolen blanket, his left leg held in a makeshift splint. Shifting it proved an immediate mistake, one that had his body seizing up as white-hot pain shot up from his bones. Tears welled in the corners of his eyes and he actually whimpered, tolerance for pain beyond pitiful.

 

A fire crackled in the nearby hearth, casting a warm orange glow upon mud-brick walls, and the tranquil sounds of night filtered in through the circular room’s single window.

 

He did not know this place, nor could he remember the events that brought him there. Part of him realized he should be worried about both facts, but his mind remained too clouded still by the aching of his body and a fitful night’s sleep to prolong such thoughts. And, he rationalized, blinking slowly and settling his gaze upon a basin of water perched on a low table just out of arm’s reach, if whomever brought him to this place had desired his death he would not be alive.

 

For the moment, no matter how present circumstances came to be, he was assured of his safety.

 

An attempt to reach for the basin of water earned him nothing but a lance of pain through his side. Resigned to a dry tongue, Dorian abandoned the notion. Shadows danced upon the walls and he watched their movements, his mind replaying the most recent events he could recall:

 

On the run from Tevinter for three months, he’d already exhausted the meager coin he had managed to gather together before fleeing Minrathous, as well as bartered away most of the jewelry he’d had on his person when he left. Each inn he’d found vacancy was less reputable than the last, and on this side of the border many doors were simply slammed in his face on the grounds that he “had a Northern look about him.”

 

For all the Chant-quoting Southerners loved to preach about love and helping the less fortunate they certainly had an easy time passing judgment on others.

 

The rest of the world loved to hate Tevinter. It seemed the common thread that held the barbarous south together – the “big bad” they united against. Not that his homeland didn’t give adequate reason to be met with hostility, but still. Hailing from Tevinter did not automatically equate Dorian with the blood mages poisoning the magisterium.

 

Blast, he didn’t even _look like_ Tevinter nobility anymore!

 

The first month he’d honestly tried to keep up his appearance, and not just for vanity’s sake. Before getting out of the country, dropping his name and flashing the Pavus family amulet could actually get him something – a free room for the night, at the very least.

 

Just shy of two months on the road, however, he’d lost his toiletries, forced to abandon them and most his other remaining possessions when he’d picked the wrong tavern to house himself. Dorian wasn’t sure why the Crows were operating in Nevarra, much less who their target had been, and it hardly mattered; everyone in the tavern at the time had been seen as witnesses the Crows couldn’t afford to leave alive. Dorian counted himself lucky he had managed to get away with no scrapes that damaged his face.

 

One month of facial growth later, sticking all the while to camping out in personally warded safe zones along the main roads without any decent source of running water with which to maintain good hygiene, and Dorian was quite frankly afraid to catch a glimpse of himself in a mirror. It was a wonder the bandits who attacked his camp hadn’t been incapacitated by the smell of him. But he’d been an easy picking for them, exhaustion and hunger more than enough to take the fight out of a man with little practical fighting experience.

 

Dorian closed his eyes, listening for some kind of clue as to where he might be. Not that it mattered. Good or bad, he would not be there very long. It was only a matter of time before his father sent an entourage after him. After all, it was far more disgraceful to have a runaway son than one who won’t conform to his parents’ unrealistic ideals of perfection. As he had no intention of returning to Tevinter and living the lie his family demanded, Dorian needed to move on – and quickly.

 

For now, with even the subtlest of movements wracking his undernourished body with agony and without even the barest inclination of his whereabouts, there was nothing he can do but rest. Hopefully whatever village this was had a skilled healer on hand – preferably a mage. That would speed the process up a great deal.

 

The sweet scent of a night-blooming flower drifted in through the little window, a calming smell. Dorian closed his eyes and inhaled, and was soon asleep.

 

When he opened his eyes next it was to sunlight streaming in through the window, the gauzy curtains around which billowed in a lazy breeze. The distant commotion of a rousing village reached his ears: people moving, exchanging cheerful words or barking orders, carts rolling by along a dirt path. Closer, a goat brayed.

 

He looked to the smoking embers that remained in the hearth, and then up at the narrow arched doorway as the beads covering it rattled.

 

A young girl entered the room, pretty, with olive skin and auburn hair that fell about her shoulders in a gentle curl. She was surprised to find him awake, her green eyes widening slightly and her grip on the flowerpot in her hands faltering. When she spoke it was with a lisp that made her Common difficult to understand.

 

Dorian frowned and tried to speak himself. His tongue was thick and clumsy in his mouth, and he felt very much as if he were trying to speak around a dozen cotton balls: “Ethcoos ‘ee?”

 

When he made to sit, the girl cried out in alarm. The protesting pain in his body did better to stop him than anything she might have said; so gingerly he lowered himself back down to the pallet. Even so, the girl remained tense. Bringing a finger to her lips in the universal picture of silence, she retreated. The beads rattled together as she took off in a run.

 

It’s not ten minutes before she returned, at ease enough now to set the flowerpot down on the table beside the basin of water. Her arrival preceded that of a tall elven man who might have been handsome if not for the scarred mangle of flesh that was the right half of his face - an old wound, from the look of it, and one that his close-cropped greying hair did nothing to hide. Dorian couldn’t help but stare as he approached.

 

The elf stared right back, wary suspicion narrowing his eyes to slits as he studied Dorian’s face; but Dorian understood his hesitance to welcome a stranger – even an injured one – into his home.

 

After a time the elf asked, “There is pain?”

 

Dorian blinked in surprise at the familiar musicality of the Tevinter accent that heavily coated the words. He himself could not get out more than a feeble wheeze when he tried to respond.

 

“No words.” The man’s expression softened as he knelt beside the pallet. Gently he pulled the blanket down and began to inspect Dorian’s wounds. He was quick with this task, and his attention brought to light injuries Dorian hadn’t noticed before – like the angry red marks around his wrists that could only indicate some form of restraint.

 

Maker, what had happened to him?

 

“Collar.” The elf said suddenly. He indicated Dorian’s throat to get the point across. “Damage. Give time for heal. Tahli.”

 

The little girl stepped closer to the bedside, and the sudden rush of Tevene from the man’s lips made Dorian’s heart ache.

_“Where is the praesul?_ ”

 

Tahli’s lisp was just as pronounced as it was before but her Tevene flowed more naturally and was easier for Dorian to understand, even though their dialect was notably _indoctus._

_“Gone for supplies,”_ Tahli said.

 

Honestly, Dorian didn’t care what they were talking about. It had been so long since he last heard his mother tongue spoken by someone other than himself, and the sound of it now was enough to spring tears to the mage’s eyes.

 

He missed it. Damn it all, but he missed his home. The rolling hills of Qarinus drifted to the forefront of his mind, and if he closed his eyes he could see the black spires of his family’s estate. How he longed for the familiarity of his own room – or better yet, the library; his comfortable nook by the window that let in the fresh seaside air, a book in his hands and not a care in the world. A servant to bring him tea and remind him to eat actual meals in between the books he devoured.

 

But he couldn’t go back. Not now, after what his father tried to do.

 

Finished with his inspection of Dorian’s injuries, the elven man straightened. “Tahli stays. Rest, friend.”

 

Dorian wished to thank him, but the raspy croak of his voice couldn’t produce anything even remotely intelligible. Luckily the elf didn’t look as if he expected Dorian to say anything. He left shortly thereafter, the beads clacking merrily in the doorway as he parted them, and Dorian realized he never even learned the man’s name.

 

As promised, Tahli remained. She hummed softly as she arranges the embrium in the pot.

 

“ _Praesul_ says embrium is soothing,” she lisped, having caught Dorian watching her. “Soothing is...“ Her mouth twisted a little as she tried to remember the definition. “Means nice, pleasing.” She glanced at him for confirmation. He nodded, and her moss green eyes lit up with pride. A bit shy still, she scooted closer to him, chewing on her bottom lip. “It hurts a lot?”

 

She meant his leg, and now that she’d called attention to it, it was impossible not to dwell on the throbbing appendage. Dorian wished the elf had left some kind of painkiller for him. Embrium was well and good and known to encourage the healing process, but something a little stronger would be appreciated. Preferably something that could just knock him out until he at least regained the basic faculties of speech and movement.

 

He supposed, however, that he should be grateful they’d taken him in at all. Most Southerners would have happily turned the other way.

 

Tahli waited for an answer, and frowned when Dorian nodded minutely, a crease appearing on her forehead. She couldn’t be more than five, six years old, and yet there was maturity to her he’d never seen in a child. Then again, most the children he knew were the spoiled sons and daughters of magisters, given whatever they want by parents who could not be bothered to pay them more than the barest hint of attention. What kind of life had this little girl lived, to bestow her with patience and empathy beyond her years?

 

The _servus_ dialect with which she and the elven man had spoken was an obvious clue – but one that only raised more questions than it answered. If they were slaves, how did they come to reside in a village in the Free Marches? Would they recognize him as an Altus – and if not, would their hospitality dry up when they learned who he was? As soon as Dorian was able to speak again his nationality would be apparent. While his Common was flawless – the benefit of being tutored from a young age – he still had an accent, and he was sure the elven man at least would pick up on it easily.

 

A small, warm hand settled over his, and Dorian stiffened.

 

“ _Praesul_ will help you,” Tahli promised, squeezing his fingertips gently. “He helps all of us.”

 

Her big green eyes were so open and so earnest that he wanted to believe her. But in a world where a father could turn against his own son for selfish gain, what cause had Dorian to believe in the mercy of strangers?

 

\- - -

 

Dorian spent the rest of the day rifting in and out of fitful sleep. Twice Tahli brought him a thin broth of chicken stock and lemongrass, and both times, embarrassingly enough, she had to feed him like a bay. At one point the soup dribbled down his chin into his matted beard. Seeing his mortified expressing, the girl giggled and purposely dripped broth down her own chin. It made the experience only slightly more bearable.

 

The elven man returned in the evening when the sunk was just beginning to sink beyond the horizon. Just as he had earlier he went through his perfunctory duty of checking over Dorian’s wounds. Several of the bandages, such as the one around Dorian’s left shoulder and one about his ribs, the elf untied, poking at whatever was revealed underneath (Dorian daren’t strain his neck to see; he’d never had the strongest stomach) and slathering the skin with a rather putrid salve. Royal Elfroot, if Dorian had to guess. Though possessing significantly stronger healing qualities, it lacked the fragrant scent of its non-regal counterpart.

 

Once the injuries were cleaned and bandages freshened, the elf bid him a goodnight. Tahli left with him this time, waving and skipping out the door.

 

The next few days passed much the same way as the first: Dorian slept a great deal of the time, awoken either by nightmares or by Tahli coming to bring him more broth. The elven man, Ahlai – whose name Dorian had learned on the third day – came in the mornings and evenings to check on him and tend his wounds.

 

From the snippets of conversation between his only two visitors Dorian gleaned he was still in the Free Marches, near a river – most likely the Minanter, as it was the largest near to him at the time of the ambush. Also from the sound of things, Ahlai was the closest thing the village had to a healer. Disappointing, but there was good news: apparently the village chieftain would be returning that day, five days after Dorian’s waking in the hut, with supplies for the village – including healing potions.

 

As much as Dorian looked forward to the medicine to boost his healing rate (he couldn’t believe there’d been a time when he could have happily agreed to laying in bed for days on end) what interested Dorian just as much was the chance to finally meet the _praesul._ Tahli mentioned the village leader from time to time, always with the sort of admiring tone a child reserves for their hero; her innocent reverence spoke volumes more than anything she could have told him about the man.

 

Still, Dorian was excited to meet him. Bedridden and with nothing else to occupy his mind he’d spent hours pondering the sort of man who could earn Ahlai’s unquestioning respect, who could make Tahli’s eyes light up like stars, but as his vocal chords were still swollen and largely unusable, he was unable to ask any of those questions. The _praesul_ was worthy of leadership – and yet - apparently, if he willingly elected to do servant’s work like traveling to the nearest city for provisions - denied himself any of the benefits of being a leader. Dorian didn’t think he’d ever met anyone in a position of power who displayed that kind of selflessness.

 

Or maybe it wasn’t selflessness. Dorian was still thinking of the rest of the world with Tevinter’s standards, but this was the Free Marches. Things were different here. Maybe the notion of everyone being equal, of a leader doing the same amount of work as those he led, just came with living in a remote village, and was nothing out of the ordinary. Dorian wouldn’t know. Much like everything with else these past few months, he was out of his element.

 

The beads at the entrance of the hut rattled, Tahli rushing inside with a huge grin on her face. She called him by the name she’d taken to referring him, “ _Estraneo_ ” – stranger. Over and over as she bounced to his bedside; “ _Praesul, Estraneo_ _è qui_!”

 

Realizing she hadn’t been following, the young girl darted back out the door. A low chuckle sounded from beyond the circular room, and then Tahli was pulling a man inside by the wrist.

 

“He is not a pet for you to give nicknames, Tahli,” the man softly chastised as he let himself be tugged along.

 

For some reason the idea the leader of this village could be anything other than human had not even crossed Dorian’s mind. But there the elf stood, wearing the most wonderfully unique Vallaslin. Outlining a pointed chin and branching down his throat, they were white and possessed an iridescent quality to them that differentiated them from any of the Dalish tattoos he’d ever seen – not that Dorian had encountered many Dalish elves in his lifetime.

 

He was handsome too Dorian couldn’t help but notice. Large moss-green eyes, sun-kissed skin just a shade lighter than Dorian’s own, and soft-looking silver hair swept into a loose bun atop his head, he couldn’t have been more than five years Dorian’s senior.

 

“I don’t know his name,” Tahli said, in the closest thing to a whine Dorian had ever heard from her. “He can’t talk. Ahlai says his collar was too tight.”

 

The elf’s eyes hardened, his free hand clenching into a fist before relaxing again. A muscle twitched at the corner of his sharp jaw as he sank down to get a better look at Dorian. “I remember,” he said, reaching out so his fingers hovered over the bruises on Dorian’s neck. He made a point to avoid touching them. The pair of faded leather gloves he wore cut off at the second knuckle, and Dorian could see little tips of white peaking from the where material ended. More tattoos? “Tahli, I have tonics in my bag. Would you mind fetching them for me?”

 

Eager to be useful to the _praesul_ , Tahli did not delay. The _praesul_ watched her go, then glanced back down at Dorian. Gingerly he pulled down the blanket covering Dorian’s body and began to more fully inspect him. “I believe I left you in good hands.” His voice was deep, rich like melted chocolate and oddly unsuited to his physical appearance. Dorian liked it all the same. “Still, I apologize for not seeing to you earlier.”

 

Dorian had no objection to the care he’d received so far, even if he did think the village could use a good spirit healer. But it was hardly Ahlai or Tahli’s fault that no mages lived in there. He forced a strained dismissal of the elf’s apology from his throat, appalled by the raw, hoarse sound that was nothing reminiscent of his usual voice.

 

For a brief moment the _praesul_ looked amused. Then he shook his head, the quirk of his lips smoothing out into an even line. “Do not strain yourself. We will take care of you. You’re safe here, I promise you that.”

Dorian did not know how true that would be, if his father ever got wind of his location.

 

Picking up on his skepticism, the elf continued, “Liberta is small, but the people here would give their lives to defend it. They will not see one of their own, even a stranger, taken back to the Imperium in chains.”

 

He described the village as if he were not a part of it. How could that be so if he was the man who led them?

 

And, Maker, more importantly – taken back to the Imperium in chains? Was that what had happened to him, an ambush by slavers? What irony that would have been, to flee from his homeland only to wind up right back there – and on an auction block, on top of it.

 

Dorian shuddered. His horror over the idea doubled when the beads in the doorway signaled Tahli’s return. The girl carried a traveling pack in her arms, eyes glowing with pride as she handed it over to the _praesul_ , delighting in the gentle pat on the head she received from him in praise.

 

Had the _praesul_ saved her, too?

 

 _He helps all of us,_ Tahli had said. Dorian had assumed that meant in the official, noncommittal way all those in command looked after their charges. But that didn’t seem the case here.

 

Dorian’s gaze slid back to the elf to watch him rifle through the pack. The iridescent markings on his chin and neck shimmered in the dim light, mesmerizing, something about them achingly familiar despite their strange appearance.

 

Just who in the world was this man?

 

**Author's Note:**

> It’s my headcanon that the servus/liberati and such lower classes of Tevinter speak a different dialect of Tevene than the educated classes. I’ve aptly named it the servus dialect and have taken inspirations from both Latin and Italian for it, where as the “proper” Tevene of Tevinter nobility is strictly Latin and whatever was shown in the game.
> 
>  
> 
> Servus/Indoctus-English Translations  
> Liberta: Freedom. Liberta is a village of freed slaves located along the Southern side of the Minanter River, somewhere between Tantervale and Starkhaven.
> 
> Praesul: Protector/Leader
> 
> Estraneo: Stranger
> 
> Liberta: freedom. A small village along the Minanter River founded by the slaves Fenris has freed. They consider him their leader, but it is a title he does not accept. 
> 
>  
> 
> Tevene-English Translations:  
> Indoctus: uneducated/unlearned/unskilled. Also a term for the servus dialect.


End file.
